Poetic Asides

PAD 2019 – Day 20

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Sometimes the prompts align seamlessly. Today’s Stroll of Poets prompt called for an “unknowable” poem, while Poetic Asides suggested poems having anything to do with “dark.”  Infinite possibilities, but this is what sparked in my brain.

Unknowable Darkness

 

Staring at the night sky, December, north of the 52nd parallel, fixate

not on every glimmering point of light, but the blackness that holds them.

Face bit by the kind of cold that reminds you you’re alive.

That distracts you from the impenetrable idea  of infinity.

Even darkness, silence have their wonders, but grasping them seems

impossible. Too much for an earthbound body to bear.

PAD 2019 – Day 19

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Mixing the Poetic Asides call for a “license” poem with NaPoWriMo’s suggestion to write an abecedarian poem. (Something I’ve never done before…which is likely painfully obvious).

PAD 2019 – Day 19

Alphabetic License

 

Always, bearing certain disaster,

everything finds great happiness.

I just kissed lovely morning.

New order perfecting quiet rights.

Still trees — ulmus, verbena, walnut,

eXhalted yellowbark. Zinging.

PAD 2019 – Day 18

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A little tired today. A little pressed for time. A little stressed. So I was happy to see the Poetic Asides prompt asking for a “Little ______ ” poem. Admittedly, this one was penned with little effort, but it did inspire me to listen to Fleetwood Mac while I work.

 

Little Lies

 

Fleetwood Mac called them sweet.

Sometimes I think it’s true.

There are truths no one can bear.

Souls who know

sometimes the real gift

are the words we don’t share.

 

 

 

 

PAD 2019 – Day 16

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Working off the Poetic Asides prompt asking for a catch and/or release poem, and my local Stroll of Poets call to write a poem more about sound than meaning.

 

The Frequency of Calm

 

In. Out. In. Out.

As though it were that simple.

As though thinking doesn’t complicate even this.

 

Chase away the panic.

Catch the breath. Hold. Release.

 

Draw it in with a rush, flurry, gulp.

Let it out with a hush, whisper, sigh.

 

Draw, draw, aww, aww, awe

for this. Now.

Hold , hold, whole, whole, hole

of worry. Fade.

Let go, let go, here, here, hear

the whisper. Still.

 

Vibrato hum. Hum. Hum.

Om. Om. Om.

 

PAD 2019 – Day 15

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My province goes to the polls tomorrow. There seems to be so much riding on this election, and though it was a short campaign, I am sick of it. The anticipation. The punditry. Want the results so the band-aid comes off, and I can deal with whatever sore remains. All of this on my mind today as I read the Poetic Asides call to write a “prediction” poem.

 

I Predict A Riot*

 

One day until the election.

I’ve stopped reading poll results,

stopped making mental counts of

the election signs in my neighbourhood.

Stopped listening to reporters, pundits, soothsayers.

Who was it that said that the wisest among us

are usually silent?

 

I put on music instead. Brit rock.

Not London Calling, but somewhere familiar.

Somewhere where they understand the frustration

of the common masses, tired of what really trickles down.

But this song is so bouncy,

makes me want to shake it, not revolt.

On a day like today — cool, grey,

trees still stark and stiff from winter,

I could use a dance infusion.

Want to be moved to move

and not strain my thoughts

about why people believe what they do.

Why money is more valuable than care.

Why I still tell my kids to behave, be responsible

when what the world needs now

is lassies and lads getting lairy, sweet lairy.

 

* with thanks to Kaiser Chiefs for the title and the inspiration

 

PAD 2019 – Day 1

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Today is the first day of National Poetry Month and the FIFTH consecutive year that I’ll be participating in the poem-a-day-challenge! I have been madly writing dark short fiction for the last few months, as part of a mentorship program with the Writers’ Guild of Alberta (how lucky am I?!?!), but I decided to dust off the blog with some poetic blab too.

This year I’m aiming to write a poem every day in a local, closed group with other adventurous Stroll of Poets members, but when I can I will try to post here as well. I will also try to respond to the Poetic Asides prompt, or a combination if it works. Today’s prompts matched perfectly, with my local group suggesting “the streets at dawn” as a prompt and Poetic Asides asking for a “morning” poem. Clearly the darkness of all that horror fiction I’ve been writing and reading bled into today’s poem:

 

Morning Before Anyone Else

 

a kind of hollowness, the streets at dawn

apocalypse now — concrete world without people

 

rubble from winter melt desecrating this suburban crescent

windows of each house black and vacant, pupils of the dead

 

trees, budless and birdless in this limbo season

morning is a beginning and an ending too

 

uncovering all that lied in the dark

 

NaPoWriMo – Day 30

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It’s the final day of this year’s poem-a-day challenge, and as always I feel simultaneously tired and invigorated. Today’s NaPoWriMo.net prompt asked for a poem inspired by a strange fact or historical nugget, while the Poetic Asides final prompt of the month asked for a coming-to-an-end poem. With a little internet exploring of weird facts and Wikipedia pages, I combined the two prompts to make this:

I get it, Frederic Baur

I’m learning
this strange fact ten years after
your death. That you, inventor of
the Pringles potato chip tube, asked
your family to put your ashes in one.
What flavour once lived in there
before you? Was it the bright red one,
iconic, yet housing the ho-hum plain?
Was it the green sour cream and onion,
a peppy shade to brighten up the
evermore? Were you paid well
for your ingenuity, your creativity,
your push to try something new
with the tried and true? Perhaps it’s
warped of me, yes, to think that once
you popped and now you’ve stopped,
but I can tell you this, Mr. Baur, organic
chemist turned food product sage:
I will never again gaze at that cylinder
of salty snacks without thinking of this
outlandish fact, and how  all of us just want
what’s left kept in what remains.

NaPoWriMo – Day 25

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Today’s NaPoWriMo.net prompt asked for a poem that takes the form of a warning label . . . for yourself. I mixed it with the Poetic Asides prompt calling for a poem title using a seldom seen or heard word.

 

Exhortation

 

Take it as a warning

the person you are about

to engage with

becomes dangerously hot(headed)

in the presence of hateful ignorance.

(Be kind for peace of mind).

NaPoWriMo – Day 22

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Melding prompts again today with Poetic Asides suggestion to take the name of a plant, flower or tree and make it the title of your poem, and the NaPoWriMo.net prompt to pick something impossible from a list of statements, and then write a poem in which the impossible thing happens. The statement I picked was The stars cannot rearrange themselves in the sky. Because it’s Earth Day, I was also thinking about humanity’s  propensity to shoot ourselves in our own earthbound feet.

 

Datura

 

Some things aren’t supposed to happen.

Stars aren’t supposed to rearrange themselves in the sky.

Flowers aren’t supposed to bloom at midnight.

We’re not supposed to be our own worst enemy.

 

Under the hood of night

Cassiopeia does yoga, corpse pose,

tries the lazy letter I on for size.

 

The datura opens, moonflower

swallowing the dark with her

soft white lips. Seducing

the sphinx moth with her scent.

 

The city’s backyard aglow

with the twinkling

oil refinery, burning 24/7.

Spotlight on

the dark side.

NaPoWriMo – Day 20

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The NaPoWriMo.net prompt today called for a “rebellion” poem. At Poetic Asides, the prompt suggested taking a line from one of our poems written earlier this month, and using it as a first line for a new poem. My first line came from my Day 9 poem.

Set Fire

 

Little brain ember, taking hold:

Let’s burn this place to the ground.

 

I don’t think of myself as destructive.

It’s the fresh start that hooks me.

 

Even ground. Equality

borne of loss. We build again,

this time together.

 

The headlines whisper again today:

It’s all a dumpster fire, but what comes after?

It could be better.

 

When I was 9, and older girl from my school

set fire to her family home. Accident. No injuries.

Insurance covered everything.

 

We all rode past on our bikes, ogling the charred

bungalow shell. Noting how part of the roof

had completely collapsed.

Black hole on a sunny street.

Her mom’s bright pink peonies

blooming in defiance.

 

I always hoped she did it on purpose.

A little truth she kept warm in her chest.

A plan, all along, to call out the phoenix.